


Matched

by fuzzybatbutts



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic), danger days - Fandom
Genre: Character Death, Emetophobia, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, I have no idea, Mild Gore, Needles, Nothing about this is happy, Sad Ending, Tattoos, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, party poison is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzybatbutts/pseuds/fuzzybatbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tattoos are symbolic in the Zones, black marks indicate someone you want to forget, so many wonder why the marks on Party's wrist are growing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matched

**Author's Note:**

> There is some gore at the end, and mentions of vomit in the story. If you do not enjoy reading sad things, go find something else. This was a random rage induced fic after a long day at work and summer school, so I'm not sorry.

Three down, one to go.

Party looked down at his wrist, three hastily etched black lines crisscrossed over three brightly inked symbols that had since faded with exposure to the sun. A hooded cobra with it’s fangs bared. A taunting, stitched up smiling face. A six pointed star with a lightning bolt and a blank stare. All were barely noticeable under the raised black ink scars, like a lovers name someone was trying to forget. All that was left was a bright yellow pill on the far left of his wrist, some mockery of his name and of the life he’d left behind. 

Brushing the hair out of his eyes. he rubbed a finger over the markings, remembering back to the day he had gotten them. They all had, together, like they always were. Some fancy tattoo parlor had just gotten a shipment of pigmented dye, so they decided to get a matching set. He’d drawn up something that he thought resembled each of them, and he could clearly picture the astonished look when the other three had seen them and approved. 

Kobra was practically writhing in his chair, biting down on his tongue to stop from groaning. Jet had been teary eyed but kept it together, Ghoul didn’t even flinch. He’d been a total baby, crying and fussing so much that Ghoul had tied his bandana around his mouth and Jet held his arm down. The needle bit into his skin like a hundred wasp stings, and the feeling of it jabbing in and out made him woozy. He chuckled, remembering how proud they were when they’d stumbled home and drowned out the stinging with alcohol and cheap food, feeling more like brothers now than they ever had before. 

They all wore the tattoos so proudly, baring them all for the world to see. They were the god damn Fabulous Four, and lord help anyone who got in their way.

But God never liked them very much and soon after, four had become three. 

The sickness had swept into the Zones and taken more than a hundred before most realized what was even happening. It started out with a runny nose and a cough, before escalating to near insanity inducing migraines, seizures so violent some would break bones, hacking up blood and vomiting, high fever, delirium, skin lesions, before eventual organ failure and death. No one survived, and no one knew how it spread. Ghoul had been just fine one second, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, then the next his eyes had rolled up in his head and he was flailing on the ground. Party remembered he had shrieked when he’d pressed his hands to Ghoul’s forehead and it felt like he was on fire. 

The next week was full of pain for everyone. Some nights he’d simply cry from the stabbing pain in his head, others he’d start screaming from the hallucinations caused by the fever. His chest was marked by scratches he’d given himself by accident, and he was often stained with the blood that would pour from his mouth. His skin stunk of bile and he became so thin that you could count every bone in his torso, skin nearly translucent. They never left his side, holding his hand to ground him and praying by some miracle, by some forgotten god that someone would find a cure for him. Nothing ever came. 

The night he’d died, the sky was clouded over. He was seizing up, arching his back and thrashing around. Skin stretched so tight over his ribs tore in some places, and he howled, begging for them to just kill him and for the humiliation to stop. Immediately he’d stopped, and a small giggle had slipped from his mouth. They all looked up, by some foolish hope thinking he was going to be okay, but his eyes were already faded, and his face was paralyzed in a smile.

They’d all screamed and hugged the corpse, trying to will it back to life. 

A day after his cremation, after they’d spread his ashes to the winds and given up his mask, they’d taken a sewing needle soaked in pen ink and scratched out his smiling face on their arms, unable to look any longer.

Jet’s loss was sudden, lacking any of the flair or degradation of Ghoul’s. It was an ambush from a gang that wanted the area for territory, flooding into the bar they were drowning their sorrows in. It was a massacre, and the brothers were pinned by the exit while Jet was hidden in a corner. Manic laughter and curses rang through the air as Killjoy murdered Killjoy, their instincts getting the better of them. Party had been struck in the head with a flying bottle, blood trickling out of his nose and making him unable to support his weight. He’d snuck around the duo shooting wildly at his friends, and taken the two pink haired twins out before they knew he was there with a shot to the back of the knee. But just as he’d reached to help Party up, they heard the sizzling pop of a raygun, and the sweet smell of burning flesh flooded the room. He let out a small gasp, before looking down at the charred, smoking hole in his chest and collapsing. Again they’d screamed, though without the third voice it was much quieter. A lone wounded Killjoy had used his last shot to take him out, but his neck was snapped by fury blinded Kobra before he could flee. 

His face was blank, no trace of anything, much less life in his features. 

The two brothers had carried him together, to the highest peak in the desert and left him, knowing Jet had always wanted to contribute something even after his death. He’d loved the night sky, so it was fitting he’d always be able to look at it. 

The blank, blue star only served as a cruel reminder, so together they’d wiped it out in a smear of ink and blood. They only had each other now, but the odds were never in their favour it seemed.

Every night they’d cling to each other, sobbing over lost friends or the fear that they might leave the other alone. During the day they’d simply wander, having lost their sense of direction and not caring if they made it back home. It wasn’t even a home anymore. It reeked of Ghoul’s vomit and lacked Jet’s cheery laughter and bad jokes.

Kobra’s was the freshest in his mind, the mere thought of it made him nearly hurl, but he hadn’t eaten in days so all he could force up was stomach acid. 

They’d been hiking in the outer Zones, not caring about the radiation blasting through their bodies and pouring a little more sand out of the hourglass. Together, they’d raced up a hillside, curious about the wafting odor floating down from the other side. Laughing and mocking the other when they slipped, the brothers reached the top at the same time, and their faces went white. 

A “Dust Mite”, was the term given to someone who’d reacted badly to BLI’s drugs and had gone feral. The pills destroyed their brain chemistry and made them loose control. The UV rays mixed with the chemical radiation rotted them, and they were practically walking corpses. It wasn’t like they were sick, it was more their brains had melted so that they were no longer people and they lashed out at anyone who got near. Vicious cannibals, everyone knew the avoid them if they valued their lives. Some would wander into town and have to be dealt with with extreme caution, but they usually stayed out in the desert and feasted on wild animals.

And they were looking at a valley full of them.

By some cruel trick by the gods, Kobra’s hand had slipped and sent a cascade of rocks down the hillside, each crackling and setting more rocks and sand free until it was a miniature landslide. Unanimously, the Mites looked up and saw the colour drain out of the boys faces, before one let out a shriek that better suited an angel being dragged down to Hell by Lucifer himself.

Stumbling over their own feet, they reached the bottom of the hill just as the first reared its mangled head over the crest. 

Only about six were in good enough shape to chase after them, but damn they were fast with barely a couple meters between them and the brothers. Howling like banshees, their run resembled a puppet being dragged on twisted strings with bits and pieces of them falling off as they ran. Their tongues lolled out of their mouths and their eyes rolled up, frenzied by the ones who’d disturbed their peace. 

The bike wasn’t that far away, maybe a hundred meters or less and Party wasn’t slowing down any time soon even though he could barely get enough air to stop himself from fainting. Kobra wasn’t a more than a step behind when his foot caught in a crevice and jerked to the left, the bone snapped like a twig and he went down like a sack of rocks. Party dug his heels into the ground and whipped around with his hand already on his gun, but Kobra’s fate was sealed. Four of the Mites immediately fell to their knees and ripped at him, with the remaining two charging at Party. Two quick shots to the chest and heads sealed the deal for both, and his attention turned to his brother. Kobra was wailing in pain, his eyes wild with panic and bulging out of his head with his teeth grinding as he weakly tried to push them off him. Fingers shredded through the leather in his jacket and the cotton of his shirt, and the soft skin of his belly was no match for their torn nails.

They dug in, peeling flesh from bone and burying their faces in his torso. He had to watch his own organs being devoured by things that were once people, shock washing over what was left of his body and he could feel a coldness in his fingers. Party managed to get a shot into every single one, but there was no hope for his brother. Unable to choke out a cry, he slowly reached out a shaking hand and squeezed Kobra’s hand. He tried to speak, but blood filled his throat and he could manage only a choked wheeze. Whether he’d drowned on his own blood, or bled out first, Party didn’t know, but when the hand he held went limp, he froze. A scream welled up from his guts, burning through every fiber of his being and taking the rage and sorrow with it. His throat bled but he did not stop for what felt like hours. 

Unable to move, he touched his forehead to Kobra’s and whispered something so softly, he was barely even sure he said it.

“I’m sorry Mikey.”

He kissed his brothers cheek, and cursed every god he could think off. It wasn't enough. 

~

But to Party, that was now ancient history. It didn’t matter anymore. His brothers mark was gone; he’d nearly torn off the skin he’d dug the needle in so hard. Only one was left, but that would soon change. The first line was right through the middle, the needle scraped away layer and layer of skin until the ink soaked in, mixing with the blood and running down his arm. He didn’t stop tearing at the flesh until the little yellow pill was gone for good and his arm was a mess of black blood. 

Standing up and ignoring the stream pouring out of the cut, he got up and hobbled towards the bright, white and silver lights in the distance. A gentle hum filled the air, the sleeping machinery snoring away. Towers seemed to touch the clouds, lit up with artificial lights and smiles. He was home, Battery City bound.

Raising his hands to the sky, he shuffled closer and closer to the entrance, a grin stretching across his cheeks. He probably looked like a plague victim, hair thinning and skinny, with gaunt cheeks from barely eating anything in a month. There wasn’t anything left of the fire haired Killjoy, he was a ghost occupying the body.

Party Poison had died along side his family, now all that was left to do was dispose of the body. He hoped they’d at least bury him with his jacket on, white had never really been his colour.


End file.
